


cold-blooded

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Secret Lovers, Secret Relationship, limited dialgoue, loose plot, snakelike behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 09:51:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: All snakes were created by the Almighty to be cold-blooded. Of course, Crowley has always been a rebel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 15
Kudos: 217





	cold-blooded

All snakes were created by the Almighty to be cold-blooded. Of course, Crowley has always been a rebel.

Cold-blooded, in other terms not related to reptiles, tends to describe cruelty. Or apathy. Or callousness. Sure, thinks Aziraphale as he and Crowley walk through Soho together (him with his hands folded behind his back, Crowley swinging his arms this way and that), all those descriptions are generally applied to demons too, but not to this one. Not to his demon.

He sneaks a sideways glance at Crowley’s profile and finds him looking straight ahead, a nonchalant expression on his face, and cannot help but smile. Underneath that cool, aloof exterior is a core of the kindest, warmest soul Aziraphale has ever known. Was that left over from when Crowley was an angel, or something Crowley has all his own? Or maybe he’d grown that way due to Aziraphale’s constant influence. Either way, it is a part of him that they conceal, the same way they conceal their relationship.

At the bookshop later, their safest place to be, Aziraphale watches Crowley change with the slightest stretch of his back, almost as if he’s about to start shedding his skin. Away from the eyes of others he allows himself to grow tender and sweet with the angel, and Aziraphale delights in the fact that Crowley feels so safe with him that he comes up behind him and presses a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. Snakes love to bask in warmth. It occurs to Aziraphale that that’s what Crowley is doing now, and if he is a snake then the angel must be the sun. Or at least a high-tech incandescent lamp.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Aziraphale says, not like Crowley needs an invitation. As Aziraphale heads off to make them some tea the demon goes straight for the comfy couch and drops onto it like lead, the momentum allowing him to swing long legs up and sprawl all over the upholstery. Good, thinks Aziraphale, who wants him to feel safe. He deserves it after pretending so much, for the sake of protecting their bond. He deserves it after working, although not very seriously and not very hard, at a job he doesn’t quite agree with anymore, and he deserves it for being, by a long shot, the only demon to ever Make An Effort when it comes to fashion.

Nobody sees what Aziraphale sees. Nobody knows Crowley like he does, and no one is certainly going to love him like the angel loves him.

Sometimes Aziraphale thinks it’s a shame that the rest of the world misses out on this soft and precious hidden side of his demon- because Crowley’s like an open flame, that’s for sure, at times warming and lively as candlelight or as intense and unstoppable as a bush fire. But in almost the same breath Aziraphale feels selfishly pleased that he has the privilege of Crowley at his most vulnerable, most genuine. Others aren’t privy to the moments that are by now as familiar to Aziraphale as the back of his own hand (the softness of yellow eyes, the way they catch in the light; the tender smiles that spread across thin lips quite despite themselves) and after all these years, Aziraphale is still grateful that he- always feeling like the less-than-perfect angel- is the one to witness these moments, this rare natural phenomenon that occurs just for him.

No one else sees the generous, selfless Crowley, who always puts Aziraphale first without so much as a second thought; who insists on distances and boundaries between them in public but makes no qualms about closing those gaps in the safety and privacy of the bookshop. The same Crowley who feeds Aziraphale oysters from his hand. The Crowley who opens the Bentley door for him, helping him in or out; who keeps a tin of biscuits on the dashboard for his angel. And they don’t see the Crowley whose touch is gentle and knowing on Aziraphale, or indeed the Crowley who will suddenly lift his head in the middle of lovemaking to blurt out something like “But _do_ ducks have ears?!”

They don’t, Aziraphale realises, see him at his best.

He’s claimed every freckle on the demon’s skin with a gentle kiss, run his hands through that dark red hair in every form- long and lustrous, easy to wind around your wrist; short and spiky, perfect for tangling between your fingers- he’s watched those slitted pupils blow wide and dark at the touch of Aziraphale’s clever hands and his pink, pretty, hungry mouth; yet every time, the angel finds himself surprised at how much more of himself Crowley is willing to give. Willing to trust. Willing to surrender himself with reckless, delirious abandon into Aziraphale’s arms.

And so, Aziraphale resolves to keep those arms open for him, no matter the cost.

* * *

Every so often Aziraphale is summoned to Heaven for a performance review- a weary, pretentious little formality granted to him as the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate. The Archs don’t particularly care about the specifics of what Aziraphale’s up to, choosing to gloss over his human habits and distractions and filtering off assignments every now and again. Perhaps that’s a blessing, as it allows him to hide Crowley as much as he can, but one can never be too careful.

Afterward he leaves Heaven feeling...empty. Hungry, yes, since meetings Upstairs never provide so much as a bowl of mints to snack on, but mostly just empty in a way he cannot bring himself to explain. All he knows is that in that instant, he needs Crowley- needs his hellfire-warmth against the pristine starkness of heaven.

Aziraphale trudges home. Crowded streets, human lives. Round the corner. Into the bookshop. He thinks of picking up the phone.

He doesn’t have to.

The door swings open when Aziraphale gives it the slightest nudge, and he sees, to heart-stopping delight, Crowley- sprawled on a large armchair near a desk, headphones in, fiddling with his phone. Glasses off. He’s made himself quite at home, and gets up abruptly- Aziraphale is reminded of a cobra poised to strike- when the angel walks in.

“Aziraphale- hey!”

“Oh, don’t let me disturb you,” is all Aziraphale can say. “You looked so comfortable.” Please, he thinks. Take the chair. Take the table. Take up all the space you want, in my home and in my heart.

“Sorry. You weren’t here yet, so I thought I’d let myself in...that’s okay, right?” Crowley peers at Aziraphale as if only just then realising he might have done the wrong thing, and now expecting the angel to tell him off. “Uh. How’d it go? The thing.”

Aziraphale simply flings himself onto Crowley and buries his face in the crook of his neck.

“Oh,” says Crowley, stunned, but he puts awkward arms around Aziraphale anyway.

“I’m actually very glad you’re here,” Aziraphale says, muffled against Crowley’s blazer, and he clings tight, the warmth of his narrow, lithe body already spreading through him. He feels the tenacious strength of the demon’s arms around him, protective without meaning to be. In the comforting embrace of this supposedly wicked, dangerous, wily creature, whose very fingertips can ignite hellfire and whose very being is designed to cause harm, Aziraphale feels safer than he’s ever been.

“Uh, well, whatever it is, Angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale finds himself absorbing the low vibration in his chest as he speaks (like the rumble of the Bentley’s engine through the seat, that infernal, blessed machine), “I’ve got you. Okay?”

“Thank you,” whispers Aziraphale.

Crowley still has no clue what’s going on but bless him, he’s not about to let go of Aziraphale anytime soon. The angel tucks his chin over Crowley’s collarbone and he can feel the steady, assuring beat of his heart.

He doesn’t dare to assume he knows more than the Almighty, but there is one thing he knows better for sure: not all snakes are cold-blooded.

Not this one, at least.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come @ me on Twitter to leave feedback and point out how I should probably get a beta or something: @stan_gaiman


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